He pulled at his choking collar, looked at his watch,
opened the window to stare down at the street, looked
at his watch, tried to read the evening paper lying
on the glass-topped bureau, looked again at his watch.
Three minutes had gone by since he had first looked
at it.

And he waited for three hours.

He was sitting fixed, chilled, when the doorknob turned.
Paul came in glowering.

“Hello,” Paul said. “Been waiting?”

“Yuh, little while.”

“Well?”

“Well what? Just thought I’d drop
in to see how you made out in Akron.”

“I did all right. What difference does
it make?”

“Why, gosh, Paul, what are you sore about?”

“What are you butting into my affairs for?”

“Why, Paul, that’s no way to talk!
I’m not butting into nothing. I was so
glad to see your ugly old phiz that I just dropped
in to say howdy.”

“Well, I’m not going to have anybody following
me around and trying to boss me. I’ve had
all of that I’m going to stand!”

“Well, gosh, I’m not—­”

“I didn’t like the way you looked at May
Arnold, or the snooty way you talked.”

“Well, all right then! If you think I’m
a buttinsky, then I’ll just butt in! I
don’t know who your May Arnold is, but I know
doggone good and well that you and her weren’t
talking about tar-roofing, no, nor about playing the
violin, neither! If you haven’t got any
moral consideration for yourself, you ought to have
some for your position in the community. The
idea of your going around places gawping into a female’s
eyes like a love-sick pup! I can understand a
fellow slipping once, but I don’t propose to
see a fellow that’s been as chummy with me as
you have getting started on the downward path and
sneaking off from his wife, even as cranky a one as
Zilla, to go woman-chasing—­”

“Oh, you’re a perfectly moral little husband!”

“I am, by God! I’ve never looked
at any woman except Myra since I’ve been married—­practically—­and
I never will! I tell you there’s nothing
to immorality. It don’t pay. Can’t
you see, old man, it just makes Zilla still crankier?”

Slight of resolution as he was of body, Paul threw
his snow-beaded overcoat on the floor and crouched
on a flimsy cane chair. “Oh, you’re
an old blowhard, and you know less about morality than
Tinka, but you’re all right, Georgie. But
you can’t understand that—­I’m
through. I can’t go Zilla’s hammering
any longer. She’s made up her mind that
I’m a devil, and—­Reg’lar Inquisition.
Torture. She enjoys it. It’s a game
to see how sore she can make me. And me, either
it’s find a little comfort, any comfort, anywhere,
or else do something a lot worse. Now this Mrs.
Arnold, she’s not so young, but she’s a
fine woman and she understands a fellow, and she’s
had her own troubles.”